Liberation
by Anozira
Summary: A tale to fill in the blanks Holmes has left in his past. Rated for adult themes and language. WARNING: The Holmes has had a very unhappy childhood. If you are bothered by violent situations, you may not want to read this. only minor edits made


**Summary: **A tale to fill in the blanks Holmes has left in his past. Rated PG-13 for adult themes, some harsh language. WARNING: The Holmes has had a very unhappy childhood. This is written to fulfill some obscure, nagging idea I've had and it is (obviously) not the only explanation for Holmes' dislike of women and carefully guarded past.

**Disclaimer: **Not really necessary since Holmes is public domain now and I can do whatever I want to him (cackles) but I wrote this limerick, and I'm proud of it, so I'll post a disclaimer anyway:

This is not an original story  
To Sir Arthur belongs the true glory.  
So please do not sue,  
Because if you do  
I'll cry, and then you'll be sorry!

_Liberation _by Anozira

A large man maneuvered his way through dingy streets, now turned menacing with the sinking of the sun. He rued his decision to forgo a cab. Going on foot was certainly less obtrusive, but it was also slower and far more dangerous than the protected confines of a hansom. However, hansoms refused to materialize conveniently. He doubted very much if anything with wheels ventured into this section of town. The stinking river with its piles of newly caught seafood and unloaded cargo, and the surrounding narrow streets ensured that no hansom cab would come within miles of the place. Even the established brothels had been left behind. In these streets, women for hire mingled with beggars, making no secret of their trade or the wares they had to offer.

For a man who rarely left the sanctity of his college at university, the journey on foot seemed like a terrible ordeal. And yet, if one were to take Romantic literature as any judge, it was entirely appropriate. In truth, the whole situation seemed rather like the plot of some badly-written novel. In spite of the more ironic characteristics that had struck him initially (he felt bitterly ashamed that his first instinct had been to laugh histerically), now that he was actually trudging through streets filthy with mud and manure he was shocked, appalled, and angry. How could a father do such a thing to a child? Never mind that the child was not his own— It was clear to him, if not to his father, that the boy was innocent of his mother's indiscretions, and on an intellectual level, his father understood the horror of the situation. And yet he had forbidden his son to find the child, now nearly a young man.

He had never listened too carefully to his father. Like many intelligent children, he had always been fiercely independent. It was not difficult to ignore his father's dire orders to leave the matter alone. There was no possible way that he could obey his father now. Not after hearing such slander issue from the trusted lips. What human being could condemn a child to such a life? "He is dead." His father had said, "And if he is not, he's a fool. I cast him out onto the street years ago to live with his whore of a mother. He deserves nothing less, demon that he is. The imprint of her adultery is written in his features. There is nothing of her in them, and certainly nothing of me. There is only Him." He could not imagine his father capable of such heartlessness, and yet soon he would have before him absolute, incontrovertible evidence proving it.

It had not been difficult to find the boy. According to a rather disreputable source he had managed to dig up, the child in question had a thin, almost waif-like beauty to him that had kept him popular long enough to secure a coveted position in one of the discreet mollie houses scattered throughout the city. The place seemed to be located in the darkest, dirtiest section of town available. As he stepped over something dead he couldn't help wondering what the un-coveted positions were like.

At last, a cryptic sign on an old, decaying house, so close to the edge of the water it was a miracle it hadn't fallen in, proclaimed that he had reached his destination. With a deep breath (a mistake, for it only brought the smell of the docks deeper into his lungs) he crossed the threshold.

He had expected it to seem like another world, a jungle-like den of iniquity, but the place seemed inconspicuously normal. An old, disgustingly fat woman sat at a desk in the front hall. When he entered, she looked up and coughed. "And what be you a-lookin' for sonny?"

"I was referred here by Jacobs. He said you're a discreet establishment with nice, clean rooms." She smiled a chilling, toothless grin.

"And what're ye called, then?"

"Holmes."

At the sound of the name, she flinched, but managed quickly to hide it. Mycroft's sharp eyes had seen it, remarked it, and knew what it meant.

"You recognize my name?"

"It's common enough," she shrugged non-committally.

"You have a boy by that name, do you not?"

Now she did not bother to disguise her suspicious look. "Aye"

"I should like to see him."

"Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but there's lots o' lads free. He's gettin' a little old, if y' know what I mean. Too tall by 'arf. Not long for this house, I'd wager."

Mycroft set his jaw and drew himself to his full height, "I should like to see him none the less. Privately." He pushed a large bundle of notes across the desk at her. "For your trouble."

"And just what am I doin' t'earn these?" She grumbled, but her eyes had gone green with greed.

"Sit here and turn a blind eye to anything that might happen between me and the boy. If he is as undesirable as you say, no one will miss him."

" Here now, where you be takin' him?"

Mycroft's hand hovered over the money, "I said a blind eye. Do not ask questions."

"Fine, fine. Have yer own way, then. Go through the door into the third room on the right, I'll send 'im in." Her gruesome, claw-like hands clutched at the notes and Mycroft turned his back on her.

Truth be told, Mycroft was surprised at the cleanliness of the room. Granted, the paint on the walls had faded to an ugly yellow and was pealing in the corners, but it had been well-maintained for its surroundings. The room made no effort to disguise its purpose. It was small, barely more than a closet with room enough for a large bed and a stand with a full washbasin. The one window in the room had been boarded up, the wood disguised badly with curtains that defiantly clashed with the bed linens. The only light was provided by a gas lamp sitting beside the wash basin. It was not comfortable or cheering but it was serviceable.

Mycroft had been listening absently to the sound of distant footsteps as he regarded the room, now as he heard them approach the door and pause he took a seat on the bed and waited. Finally, with a soft warning knock, the door opened.

The boy was taller than he had expected and frighteningly thing. Emaciated seemed a more appropriate description. The bones in his cheeks were overly pronounced, and his clothing hung limply from his narrow shoulders, as if he were a store mannequin in clothing several sizes too large. He stood perfectly still inside the door, save for the twitching of his fingers, the only sign of nervousness he betrayed. He smiled at his visitor, a look that was meant to be inviting and relaxing, but instead Mycroft found it unsettling, for the smile did not extend beyond his pale lips. The dead, uncaring expression in his grey eyes remained unchanged.

The boy leaned casually against the doorjamb, shamelessly displaying the graceful lines of his body. A long silence of appraisal followed, as the visitor and the rent boy regarded each other. Finally, the boy smiled again and effortlessly broke the silence in a manner calculated to put his visitor at ease. He moved fluidly into the room, his body swaying provocatively as though it were riding a wave in the ocean. "What can I do for you sir? You will find me a willing accomplice to your every desire." He locked the door and turned the lamp down and was turning with a wet cloth to wash his visitor's hands when Mycroft cleared his throat, feeling his face flush a deep red at the unexpected turn of events.

"I have not come for your services, my boy. I am here to consult you on another matter."

The boy dropped the cloth back into the basin, and backed away towards the door. His movements had lost their fluent sexuality, his limbs moving in quick, angular, economical strides. "You aren't a copper, are you some sort of private detective?" Before Mycroft could respond to this, the boy had unlocked the door and, with surprising speed and agility, sped out into the hallway. With a muttered curse, Mycroft followed him and through sheer force and a considerable size advantage, managed to grab hold of the boy's shoulders and pull him back into the little room. The thin frame wriggled and writhed, twisting and contorting to an alarming degree. Mycroft subdued him slowly, taking several hits from the boy's fists and feet, which were flying at anything within reach. Mycroft disregarded the dangerous limbs, patiently pressing his advantage until the boy was seated on the bed, smoldering coals burning in his bright, grey eyes.

Mycroft glared at his young charge, summoning every image of every angry schoolmaster he had ever known, pouring steel into his voice as he spoke. "I am not a detective, nor am I an official of any kind. I have not come to harm you, I promise you my boy. You must trust me."

The boy nodded and signaled his surrender by allowing his body to go limp under Mycroft's hands. His eyes, however, did not lose their intensity of gaze. For a moment, the two merely sat and looked at each other, younger, angrier grey eyes defiantly challenging older, calmer ones. At last, with a snort, the boy broke the silence.

"You are here from my mother, aren't you?"

"How do you deduce that?" Mycroft asked, surprised.

"I would be a fool if I could not recognize the family resemblance. We were obviously born of the same mother. Are you my brother?"

Mycroft's expression broke into an uncharacteristic smile, "I am your half-brother. You are quite correct, my boy. You and I share the same, intelligent mother and the same artistic blood runs in our veins."

"You, then, are mother's legitimate son."

"The difference in our fathers has set our fortunes apart." Mycroft agreed, impressed by the boy's acuity. "My name is Mycroft Holmes."

The boy took the extended hand briefly, mumbling, "Sherlock." The absence of a family name hung in the air like a suspended bullet.

Now that the introductions had been made and the boy seemed to be calm, Mycroft allowed himself the luxury of studying his new younger brother in depth. In order to do so, he settled himself rather uncomfortably against the wall, cursing silently that this meeting couldn't take place in a more appropriate atmosphere. Then, perhaps in a strange way a brothel room with no chairs was an appropriate meeting place for two siblings separated by the affair of a woman.

Sherlock had a delicate air about him, he moved with grace and agility and seemed remarkably comfortable in his long limbs for a still-growing boy. Closer inspection, however, proved this to be a carefully built façade. Beneath the coquettishly innocent exterior was an ever-vigilant, nervous strength. He was observant, energetic, resourceful, and Mycroft suspected also wildly emotional. If his nerves and emotions could be harnessed, his observational skills trained, and his wild, nervous energy channeled into an appropriate outlet he would truly be a force to be reckoned with.

As Mycroft satisfied his inner logician with deductions and calculations, he began to become aware of another entity in the room, an awkwardness that seemed to hang in the air between them in a cloud. Delivering himself a swift, mental kick for losing the boy's trust so quickly, he turned his mind to the problem at hand. It was then that, with an unpleasant start, Mycroft realized he had absolutely no idea how to go about rescuing a self-sufficient individual who seemed to not need saving. Lacking a set of rules, he fell back on an old game his father had sometimes played with him.

"Well, my lad, what do you know of me?" The challenge had been posed, now to see if the boy would parry the thrust.

"Beyond the obvious facts: that you are a successful student of law, that you come from a wealthy family, that you have only recently learned of my existence, and that you are unaccustomed to physical exercise I can tell nothing."

A parry and thrust in return. Mycroft had not expected such a succinct reply and he forced the expression of pride and admiration back down his throat, opting instead for a stern, "Support your theories."

"I should think it was obvious," the boy replied defensively, "You have ink stains on your shirt cuffs and shiny patches on your right elbow, the clear marks of a student (and I suppose I could mention that you're right-handed.) You may not know that pressed your sleeve into still-wet ink recently. The only word I can properly read is "ad hominum" which labels you either as a historian or a lawyer. You have the look of a politician about you, so I elected the latter. You are obviously intelligent and studious, and yet you were able to take time to come to London and find me, thus I infer you are relatively successful.

As to the rest, your dress labels you a member of the privileged upper class," although he had made an effort to disguise it, Mycroft detected an air of disdain in this statement. "You are breathing rather heavily still, which shows that you are not used to physical exertion. Finally, presence here in a neighborhood which you are not accustomed to visiting, your acceptance of an environment you find disgusting, and your forcefulness in dealing both with Mrs. Crew and myself show that you care very deeply about this interview. There are only two explanations for this sudden interest in my existence: that our father is dead, which is obviously not the case, and that you did not know of it until quite recently."

Mycroft smiled, allowing the pleasure he felt to show on his face. "Excellent, my boy. You are far more astute than I expected. You have a great intellect, and with education you will go far in life. Come, let us be rid of this hell-hole."

He had reached the door when his stately exit from the room was halted by a sound behind him. Mycroft turned around in surprise, a hand still grasping the doorknob.

Sherlock stood with his feet apart and arms held firmly at his sides, fists clenched into tight balls. The tension radiated from his body in waves. He met Mycroft's gaze with steely contempt, his mouth forming one, quietly aggressive word.

"No."

"I beg your pardon?" The large form of the older man seemed to fill the room as he turned to fully regard the boy that had dared to question his authority. But the Sherlock would not be brow-beaten into obedience.

"How dare you parade in here like some avenging angel come to rescue me from the filth and grime of my meaningless existence? You, who carelessly lived out your boyhood without so much as a thought to your absent mother. You, who allowed yourself to be coddled, instructed, and loved by a monster masquerading as a gentleman. Do you know what the man you call your father is? He is the cold-blooded murderer of a woman and her young child. No, do not turn away. So help me _God_ you will hear me! You do not know the misery and shame she died in, the filth and disease she endured because _he_ was too proud to risk his precious honor. Can you stand there in your suit and tell me she deserved to die like that? And if you can I dare you to… What crime have I committed that I should be punished? What have I… What did _she_…God DAMN you!" His quiet anger worked itself into a violent, burning passion and as the barbed words flew with unerring accuracy, Mycroft struggled ineffectually to duck and subdue the flying fists until at last the boy's rage burned itself out and he stood quiet in the middle of the room, his chest heaving and his eyes glowing red with the dying fire of hot, pure fury.

For the first time in his life, Mycroft found himself completely and utterly speechless. The air in the room seemed to vibrate with repressed energy and Mycroft half expected to see jolts of electricity light the room with brief, tense light. A lesser man would have left in despair, but Mycroft was not a man to be cowed by an unexpected situation and he began carefully calculating his next move. He toyed briefly with the idea of leaving and returning in a day or two, giving the boy time to become accustomed to the idea of receiving help, but quickly realized that such an action would lose him what little trust he had earned. Finally, after a long, tense silence he spoke to the boy calmly and quietly, taking extreme care with the words he chose.

"Your anger at my father and I is entirely justified. You were treated abominably and unjustifiably by my father and nothing I can say or do can possibly excuse the suffering you endured at his hands. He is still unrepentant and I believe he will never see these events the way you and I view them. As to the sins of our mother, I must plead only that I was far too young to understand properly what had happened and how unjustly she had been punished. But you must understand, even were she alive today I could do little to help her now, not without the knowledge and condemnation of our father." He was interrupted here by a snort from Sherlock which he ignored, "I can, however, help you if you will let me." Mycroft stopped to take a breath and assess his sibling's reaction. Sherlock had lost his defensive stance and angry expression. He seemed to be carefully considering his brother's offer. Mycroft waited patiently for his response, already certain that now, whether he realized it or not, Sherlock would willingly leave with him.

At last, the boy nodded once, decisively. "Very well, I will come with you. Even if I wished to remain here I couldn't. I'm far too old." He said simply. Mycroft smiled encouragingly and extended his hand to his younger brother. He was surprised when Sherlock's face broken into a wide grin. "I suppose you've already made all the necessary arrangements for me?"

Mycroft nodded, smiling in return. "Indeed. Come, then."


End file.
